Chapter 3 CHAPTER THREE

Friday night came, with controlled chaos that Catherine Whitmore loved to play in. The dining room had been turned about, crystal sparkling, silver shining, flowers in mathematical pattern.

Theo was in the kitchen wearing black trousers, a white button down shirt that Catherine had thrown at him in the morning.

He was waiting for his cue, standing next to contracted caterers who looked at him sympathetically. They were aware of one of their own.

"Rough gig?" A kind-eyed middle-aged lady, whispered.

“You might say that.” Theo said.

The entertainment guests came in on time at seven. Some of those faces were familiar to Theo in society pages and business news. These were the top, the influential ones, those who circulate money and make the decisions that change thousands of lives. And here he was making ready to serve them wine.

"Theo!" Catherine hailed in the dining-room with her piercing voice. "We're ready."

Theo took the first bottle of wine, a costly vintage Victor had chosen, and went into the dining room. Theo was going around pouring wine, and the conversations of the eight guests stopped. He was again nonexistent, like another piece of furniture.

“Victor, you see what has happened to us downtown, you have to tell us.” said a silver-haired man. “I heard that the whole block went to Whitmore Holdings.”

Victor smiled, the smile not coming into his cold gray eyes.  "We saw an opportunity and seized it. In two years, that whole area will be completely transformed."

When Theo poured wine for a woman in an emerald dress, he heard the voice of Richard on the other side of the table.

"Father's being modest. There was a block on which we had to out-bid Brennan Industries. Crushed them completely."

The visitors joyfully laughed.

The hand of Theo trembled a little. Brennan. He had heard the name before, and where?

“Be careful," the emerald-coloured woman said in an accusing tone, glancing at her glass. In his distraction Theo had poured a bit too much.

“My apologies.” he said and walked on.

Elena sat on the right hand of her mother, she was beautiful in a navy blue dress and always smiled on the right time and said very little. Theo had not been looked at by her since he had come into the room.

The dinner was followed by dish after dish. Theo served them all, emptied every plate, refilled every glass. Conversations flowed over him, business transactions, politics, scandals, social.

Then a name of Graham Whitmore came about.

“Well, how is your father doing, Victor?” an older woman asked. "I haven't seen Graham in years."

Victor almost compressed his face. “Father is in poor health. He lives primarily to his quarters.”

“What a disgrace.” the woman went on. "He was so vibrant once. Made a fortune of this family, didn’t he?

“Out of very little.” Victor corrected smoothly. “Father used to be a brilliant businessman of his time.”

The conversation continued, and Theo saw Catherine and Victor look at each other, and there was some silent conversation taking place between them.

As soon as dessert was done and people had gone into the sitting room, Theo started clearing the dining room. He labored like a starving animal to get out of it.

When he was taking plates towards the kitchen, he heard some voices in the passage. Just within the kitchen door, he stood still, out of sight.

“I can never believe you ask the Hendersons to dinner.” Richard was saying, a little volubly, with a certain amount of wine in his voice. “They have been posing questions on the old properties.”

“Which is precisely the reason I asked them.” Victor answered in cold blood. “Keep your friends close and your nosy neighbors closer. One of the inspectors was the father of the Henderson woman in the eighties. In case she is delving into ancient files, I have to find out the reason why.”

"What if she finds something?" said Richard.

"She won't. All that followed since then was buried. Literally." Victor replied.

Richard laughed nervously. "Still, maybe we should"

"Should what? Nothing to fret about. It's been forty years. All the participants are either killed or bribed. Bradley is the loose end of the last, and we are cutting him off.” Victor replied sharply and quietly.

"You sure that's wise? What if he talks?" Richard said.

"To who? He's as guilty as the rest of us. He talks, he goes down too. In addition, the old man is likely to be half-senile by this time.” Victor replied.

Their voices had died away and they went back to the sitting rooms.

Theo stood still in the kitchen with his brain whirling. The fragments were beginning to make an image, hazy and yet visible.

Bradley the name of the hall talk. Forty years. Buried. Paid off.

Something had occurred in the eighties, something so great that the Whitmores were still anxious that it would ultimately be found out some decades later.

Theo completed the cleanup, and his constant motions were automatic and his mind was spinning. Upon returning to his small room, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and began to search as he finally got back to his place.

Graham Whitmore 1980s business deals did not render anything useful.

Whitmore Holdings history provided him with the externally marketed narrative of the company of consistent expansion and intelligent investments.

He had made various combinations, varied search terms, yet all about the past of the Whitmore family appeared to be not only well edited but also well sterilized.

Theo opened his notes app and typed all that he had overheard: Bradley, payments ending, forty years, buried, the Hendersons asking questions, inspectors in the eighties.

He looked at the words, which seemed to have an attraction to him, about an investigation taking shape.

There was a story here. One of the secrets that the Whitmores were desperately trying to conceal.

Theo considered the proposal of his colleague, David to enter into a joint venture agreement with him to establish a private investigation business. Perhaps it was high time to cease as a victim and resume being a journalist once more.

However, he first needed information. He had to discover who Bradley was and what had happened in the past forty years.

His eyes drifted to the door. The mansion was now silent, visitors disappeared, family asleep. There must have been answers somewhere in this house.

The research of Victor was never unlocked. The room of Catherine was inaccessible. Yet there was one place where Theo could go.

Graham Whitmore. The elderly man in the east wing who was overlooked by everybody.

During the years, Theo had on one or two occasions brought Graham meals, which no one liked to do.

But Graham wasn't senile. Those old eyes are still seeing clearly in Theo opinion.

Tomorrow, Theo decided. The following day he would go to Graham and ask a few questions.

Theo was feeling something inside him, the first time in three years. Not quite hope, not yet.

But purpose.

The mansion had attempted to destroy him, had attempted to take away his memory of himself.

And yet Theo Callahan was an investigative journalist, although he was cleaning toilets.

And journalists do not cease to ask questions because they are dangerous to respond to.